


be faithful to the ideas in your mind,

by izih



Series: vengeful ghost [1]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Poetry, Present Tense, Psychological Trauma, Series, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izih/pseuds/izih
Summary: As a self-titled prodigy who doesn't live to his parent's expectations, Xanthus Beauvoir yearns to escape. He establishes a Machiavellian relationship between him and his close friends, café-owner Jeremy Yuna and barista Rory Morgan, to feel again.As the friends' relationships become strenuous, Xanthus evades responsibility and finds someone who exposes his soft spot--irish-born immigrant Dearbhla Ní Fhloinn.
Series: vengeful ghost [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021374
Kudos: 3





	1. 𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙎,

༄

He was in tears. His life's work was on the edge of slipping through his fingers, and I didn't care.

It was a Friday evening on a chilly day between the summer and autumn. The café, R&OM, was nearly vacant as the sun began to set, an unusual end to the otherwise electric day. The café's interior was earthy and rustic with an idling aroma of coffee. There existed no pop of colour in the bland-yet-inviting establishment but the dim green 'J' neon light that signified the owner: Seoul-born Jeremy Yuna, otherwise known as Jez, who stood before it.

Jez—a short form of his ironic nickname Jezebel—picked at his fingers anxiously and ran his hands through his deep burgundy hair from behind the register as the rest of the customers started to depart more than they showed up. His eyes flickered across the small café, from the day-old discounted pastries at his immediate left to the small stage in the back of the area with new instruments piled high.

Jez's troubled eyes caught up with me after he shifted his weight nervously. A flash of solace washed across his face as his gaze settled on someone familiar to him—me, a childhood friend.

Before I could begin to process my movements, I was already a few paces away from my friend group's creaky booth on my way to console Jez to the best of my ability and much to my dismay.

"You think today might just be a bad day?" I whispered to Jez before having taken a seat on the dark green booth.

He heaved a sigh and shrugged, speechless.

I wasn't sure how to encourage my longtime friend. This café was his life's endeavour, and if Jez can find a way to salvage it, he would have done it. However, I assumed the last few weeks had become increasingly deserted with the rise of more affordable but less ethical chains opening up nearby. He seemed worried about the state of this business.

"It's more than a bad day," he complained. "This'll be week four of... almost no one."

Four weeks before my meeting with Jez, I finished a four-year degree in art at a university nearby, opting to live on campus for my final period there. Because of my housing choices, I was unexpectedly away from Jez for the time being before graduating at a quiet ceremony that I attended alone. I was ignorant that everything had gone downhill for the café so rapidly, but I felt so disconnected from his struggling that it felt tough to care.

I glimpsed outside the window where a new, multi-storey restaurant chain stood intimidatingly with a hostile aura like spirits in a cemetery on Halloween. As my gaze fixed on the new eyesore, the master-worker for the café emerged from the same street.

"I might have to let go of Revive. It's coming down to selling or bankruptcy," Jez sighed.

Rory—or Revive, a nickname given to the master barista for making student-saving caffeine drinks—was not a considerable colleague in my life for long. However, being greeted after university education with their long, dirty blonde tresses and uniquely masculine face and shape was a relief I didn't know I desired. Their sunken eyes told me the same statement that Jez's did—one of exhaustion.

Rory's empty smile didn't quite reach their eyes, and they went in for a much-needed hug. When they instigated the embrace, it felt as if they were pulling me in harder before squeezing me tighter than usual. Their familiar feminine scent contrasted their outward appearance but perfectly complemented the aroma of the café itself. They inhaled deeply, most likely taking in my mahogany smell.

The embrace lingered, which ended up unsettling me. It reminded me of the times we had explored our curiosities with one another. Had that never happened, perhaps Jez and Rory would have gotten closer together.

But it did happen, and I used our curiosities to my advantage.

I drove a wedge between them for my gain, my enjoyment. Had Rory and Jez spent time together they would have left my side long ago.

Once Rory pulled away from me, I made a brief moment of eye contact with Jez, who looked hurt. Though Rory is his star worker, Jez believed falsehoods about them. Everything worked perfectly.

"Rev—" Jez began to say before he was interrupted by a phone call.

He gave a basic greeting in English then one in Korean—a new and welcome culture for the town—before handing the phone to me while mouthing the caller's title: father.

I stood and took a deep breath as Rory caressed my back, a normally heartwarming gesture that didn't seem as platonically genuine as they intended it to be. I had to prepare for an already estranged familial relationship to become tenser.

"Hello," I blabbed. Nervousness attacked my veins already, and it didn't help that I was speaking to the only man that could take me out of my typically apathetic (but still aware) character.

"Xanthus," my father responded joyously. It was never like him to sound so amiable and gleeful. "I have a bit of a gift for you," he exclaimed in French.

"What is it?" I inquired, not taking advantage of my opportunity to speak my second tongue with my father. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

His speech sounded like he was reading off a script. "Your mother and I have decided that this is the time to attempt to reconcile. We want to make amends with each other and with you. Jeremy Yuna—I believe that's his name—should give you an envelope soon." I'm patient for him to continue. "Congratulations on your further education. What's your degree in?" He continued in the other romance language.

I wasn't sure if I should have lied to him. My father was a very business-oriented person, which made Jez like a second son to him. An arts degree had been the long inside joke of hatred amongst my father and his colleagues. I chuckled nervously and stalled further until having settled on my lie.

"It's in marketing. Very useful in this day and age, no?" I had to hold back my eyes from rolling out of habit as I faked my interest, regardless of whether or not my father could see me. My friends assumed he and I are close, and I refused to jeopardise that falsehood.

"Maybe if you ever lose your angst, you can put that degree to work here," replied my father, hinting at a potential job at a streetwear company owned in part by him and his younger family members. Despite the many things I could've said to him, I intentionally ignored his taunts.

I gave him an affirming grunt before chuckling. Assuming the shifted weight on my feet made me look anxious to Jez and Rory, I intentionally dragged out my already fake laughter to make it fill the room only occupied by us three. Anything to make it seem like I love father as much as he faked his love for me.

The front door opened as my father said his final statement before abruptly hanging up on me, "Come and see us over the holidays."

Bells jingled as the door shut, and Jez's face lit up in both a flush and with lambency. With an accompanying bow, Jez gave the customer the same bilingual greeting as he gave my father, so I figure they aren't someone I know personally rather than a regular customer. I ignored them by sitting at the stools near the register to wait for Rory to prove they're a brilliant barista to me.

"He seems happy," Rory chuckled when they got behind the register.

Both Rory and Jez's gazes settled on the customer, a timid-looking woman who seemed to be around our age. Her skin looked translucent as the setting sun beamed on one side of her face. Her deep and muted red hair contrasted her light skin and washed her out somewhat. Well, just about ten years ago there was a fad to look vampirish, so I assumed that was the look she wanted.

As she ordered from Jez, she didn't put on a smile—an oddity here—and her hollow eyes, looking almost bruised, coupled with such an expressionless face convinced me that I would be seeing her here more often for some of the town's best rejuvenating drinks.

A wave of solace washed over me, a sensation formerly nonexistent to me.

The striking woman lifted her gaze to meet my eyes. Her grey eyes were soothing to me. I held her stare as I fixed my rounded glasses and adjusted my top—a warm, thick turtleneck in a soft beige, leagues different than her dark academia style.

Her emerging scowl was uninviting and mean, but I could tell she had more vulnerable emotions behind that stone-cold wall. She had to do that, no? The various sounds of Jez's coffee-making and Rory's trivial ramblings became background noise as I started examining her face. Immediately, she turned to Jez again to initiate another conversation.

"Are you even listening to me?" asked Rory. My eyes darted to their tied-up hair than to their gently annoyed expression marked by scuffed, raised eyebrows. "You'd be better off drinking black coffee today. Wake your mind up."

Their eyes travelled down my seated body, settling briefly on my lower half. "I could do the waking, if... that's what you'd like." I shifted uncomfortably and looked at the woman again. She seemed to be captivated by the discussion taking place between her and Jez.

I glanced back at Rory and returned their intense look, dropping my eyes to the same places merely to stimulate him as much as our encounters used to be. I wanted him under my control, not the other way around. Their slight squirm and immediately going to make the black coffee brought a smirk to my face.

When I looked back at the woman again, I saw her analysing my face and neck area where a dainty gold necklace lies. I meet her eyes and clench my jaw while spreading my fingers slightly, causing the barely-prominent veins in my hands to curve.

Jez broke the eye contact by blocking my view of her as he served her the drink she ordered. I took that opportunity to gaze upon Rory as they poured my dark beverage into a similar cup. All I could picture was my hands all over them, starting the night with bliss and—

"Here, Sir," whispers Rory. The deep green cup radiated warmth to my hands as they spread warmth elsewhere.

A creak and a soft exclamation from the woman told me another chair has broken beneath a customer again, a monument of money lost.

Jez took the opportunity to get her seated near all of us, and in retrospect, it was the best decision someone had done for my benefit whether he knew it at the time or not. The hopeless romantic must have known what he did, right?

Iced drink in hand, she sat next to me with an exhausted huff and an unamused chuckle. Rory took the register's chair and placed it across from me before taking a seat and giving me a look-over. I prayed that Jez stayed oblivious.

And he did.

"Dearbhla," the woman inserted. "My name. Call me Dear." Her accent was stereotypically Irish. It had a ring to it, something that I could undeniably, wholeheartedly trust.

That was dangerous.

Her skin acted as a thin porcelain veil over her body's capillaries, yet some hints of colour existed as gentle freckles that decorated her face and décolleté. Her paleness was almost sickly or zombie-like. There must have been a twinge of a belief in the back of my mind that she must have been this perfect ethereal being.

"You're staring," Jez whispers in a singsong fashion just loud enough for Dear to hear. She exhales sharply, slightly amused.

I give Jez a firm expression. I glanced at Rory, already shooting bullets at me with the same look. Their obvious jealously made me snicker.

"Dearbhla... Sounds out of this country," Jez said playfully.

"I've only just come here, like the past month or so," she replied gently, accentuating a sharp 't' sound in 'month'. Her soft voice and kind accent echoed in my mind like the scent of freshly cut lilacs during a crisp spring solstice. "I haven't dared to—to explore this place much since coming here."

"Is this place a lot like where you last lived?" Rory inquired.

Dear nodded. "I think that, in terms of latitude, the city I grew up in is about the same as here. Weather's similar and just as vacant, if that matters." Her shy, quivering voice was how I expected her to sound for some odd reason. I would have typically given most people benefit of the doubt. "Can barely compare much about the people, though."

"Are the people there bitter and miserable fiction-tellers? In that case, they'll be identical," joked Jez. Rory added their hearty tenor chuckle.

Dear chuckled as she nodded. "Everyone knew one another, so it was like a village of secondary schoolers."

Rory's lingering blush with their yearning look made me believe the conversation had to come to an end soon. "This is Xanthus, by the way, since he doesn't have a name tag," they pointed out.

She looked at me with careful eyes.

"We call him X."

She grins. "Hello, X."

༄


	2. 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙈𝙄𝙎𝙀𝙎,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xanthus reveals a bit of an obsession with the newcomer as Jeremy and Rory tighten the growing tension between them,

༄

"Did he ever say something to you about it?" Rory asks me, knocking me back into reality.

Conversing about the townspeople should be a part-time job for Rory and I. This time it's about Jez and how he finally alluded to the decision he would make. If Jez chooses wrong, Rory could be without a job.

Rory's breathy sigh is one of exasperation. Their lightly manicured fingers tap energetically on my hardcover notebook. "You're always writing things in here in some other language. Why?"

I slightly chuckle and close the notebook. Rory won't see its actual contents soon. "Jez spoke to me once about it. It was yesterday." I use my pen as a baton, orchestrating my point to punctuate it further.

They lay their elbows on the counter next to the register's display screen as they rest their head in their hands. "I don't even know where else I can work with the skills I have, X. The only other place like this is fucking Starbucks or the butcher, and I hate the smell of guts," they breathe out.

More often than not, I'm at a loss when I have to comfort my friends. This thought brings me back to the monologue etched messily in my notebook, one labelled "Apathy". I sigh at Rory's troubles, though not due to pity, before cracking open the book's pages again.

༄

_ APATHY. 1 September. _

_ Their pain matters, but I can't bring myself to assist them with navigating through their hardships. Even being able to garner superficial sympathy has been a challenge, and it's been especially prominent with the risk of Jeremy losing his entire livelihood. All I can do is acknowledge their issues and pain. _

_ Jeremy would either have to travel back to South Korea to live with his maternal grandparents after selling the property since his parents would refuse to help him a second time. Or he has to cut down on spending even more, which would leave at least one of three employees out of work. Or he has to find some extraordinary fountain of money through fundraising, social media campaigns and take back the customers won over by cheaper items ~~or through my family.~~ No. _

_ His pain matters. I have the finances and influence to help him, but I can't. Is it executive dysfunction impeding on my ability to do things? No, I've been achieving my personal goals just fine. _

_ Perhaps the awareness I have negates some of the apathy I'm exhibiting; I'm aware of these things, I want to help, but I can't. _

_ Can't? Can't or won't? _

_ ~~Make it up to Jeremy for impeding on his relationship with Rory.~~ No. _

_ ~~Make sure Rory has a stable job.~~ No.  _

༄

The scribbled out words and phrases after the last 'no' become too much to decipher, so I shut my journal and turn my attention back to Rory.

"Maybe the wages are better at the only Starbucks in Yukon?" I inquire.

Rory gulps hard and removes their head from their hands, shaking as much as their breathing. Rory's typical blank beige canvas of a face is now a reddened, emotional mess. After living a static life for this long having some sudden change is understandably terrifying to them. Sympathy, finally. I lay my hand on one of theirs to convey any minuscule amount of said sympathy to them, and as I figure, they smile wide and raise my hand to their face. 

"I miss us, X." I don't. "I think you and I should go on a date again to shake all these emotions off," they suggest with a smile on their face. Their unwillingness to look me in the eye is a giveaway. They've wanted to ask this for a while.

Much to my dismay, I nod. I can use this trusting nature being exhibited right now to my advantage later.

I open my notebook again to jot down some of my thoughts. I gloss over the abundance of ideas that fill the pages that I've decorated since the summer equinox. However, the pages I skim through in the middle catch my attention, the ones about Dearbhla.

In the nights since we've met, I've tried my hardest to get her out of my mind. A quarter of my notebook has descriptions of her.

There are pages dedicated to what I assume about her personality and identity. I even did my best sketching her current state and what she would look like if a part of her changed—if she went through grief if she makes a whim decision, and so on. The next page and so on is how I plan on interacting with her.

I angle the notebook towards myself as I stare at her drawn face, coloured in only by the off-white paper and slight red shading on her nose and ears done by my stained fingers from the night before—this is her grief. A tug in my chest emerges, a signal of yearning to see her in this type of way. I haven't felt this way since Rory and I established the "something more" stage of our friendship.

"What do you put in there, X?" Rory mumbles.

"Observations," I half-answer. Sharing too much about the journal is not what I want them to hear, so I plan to keep it as superficial as possible.

Rory's intense eye contact catches me off-guard. For a moment, I wonder about the what-ifs—what if we stayed together? What if I tried harder? What if I love them?

They grab my hand to bring it to their mouth, planting a sweet and firm kiss on my knuckles. "What do you observe about me?" They inquire kindly.

I'm not sure what to say. It's hard to differentiate between platonic, romantic, and lustful love and which one applies to the relationship between Rory and I, so telling them what I observe about them and we are making me draw a blank.

Instead of giving them a legitimate answer, I return the hand kiss and give them the same intense stare while letting my eyes wander over their body.

"Our encounters," I whisper tenderly with a slight smirk. It's the answer they want, and my thought is confirmed when that familiar blush rises in their cheeks again. "Details, details."

With one fluid movement, Rory reaches forward with both of their hands to cup my face before kissing me deeply. A slight rush of butterflies fills my stomach as Rory's tongue fills my mouth. One thing I always liked about them was their overbearing tongue since it's one of the only kinds of overstimulation I enjoy.

But my mind continues to be occupied by her.

Though, instead of pulling away from the kiss, I entertain Rory by deepening it. However, my eyes stayed open, frantically scanning the immediate area in the case—

"Seriously, again?" Jez complains about our current position with a scoff. The flaw of being an entity birthed within confines of our universe is only being capable of interpreting what's in front of you.

Rory pulls away, flustered and embarrassed to see their boss and former friend judge him so much.

I turn to face Jez in all of his pissed glory. "And I thought you were supposed to be the hopeless romantic, Jez," I snicker. "Why does it have to stop when it's finally me? Do I not fit this movie-perfect romance you admire so much?"

Jez coughs before managing an uncomfortable chuckle and a humorous roll of his eyes. "Maybe not on the clock then, X?" His immediate turn of attention to me suggests that he's still on the rocks with Rory. Perfect. I nod and smile at him before turning back to the reddened Rory. "Rev?"

Rory nods quickly, shifting his gaze to their feet. "Won't do it again, boss, promise."

"It better be a promise you uphold a commitment to this time," Jez snarls. "X, I have a request for you." I turn back and lift my head, listening as much as I can. "I feel so embarrassed asking for this... Can you please—" he swallows and sniffles— "please ask for your dad or someone in that atmosphere to help me out? I think they know what it's like—"

"They're a streetwear company, not a chain restaurant," I interrupt. "You two have such different businesses, and it's not like father is looking to invest—"

"Please," begs Jez. "Some money, exposure, I need something. This place—it's going down under soon, and I can't keep cutting back. These big chains, corporations, they're running me out." He grabs my cold hand in desperation. "Help."

I glance at his chestnut-coloured eyes, full of defeat and mercy. Something in my chest flares but immediately subsides as the entrance gives off its familiar opening ding.

"Think about it, X. Please. You know this. I need anything to keep me afloat," he whispers before heading off to greet the customer.

Dearbhla.

Her entire look has changed. What was once her muted red hair is now a modern ash blonde that complements her porcelain skin, decorated with light touches of makeup to conceal her otherwise dark under eyes and bring shadows to her high cheekbones. What was once a vampirish outfit is now an earthy-toned winter coat suited for the northern weather. I didn't illustrate this kind of Dearbhla in my journal.

Rory scoffs and returns to the back of the café. The scoff is mostly because of their annoyance but partially in alignment with their job. I rub my fingertips, the cold endings longing for their touch already. The spark rising in me again is something I dislike.

Dearbhla sits near me with one seat separating us two. My journal becomes my next distraction tactic as a fear (paranoia?) makes the hair on my arms beneath a thick sweater stick up. I run my left hand along my right arm to hide the standing hairs that she can't even see.

I glance at Jez as he prepares Dearbhla's drink. The stress of industry working makes his otherwise polished and glinting face look gloomy and rough.

"X," Dearbhla interrupts as Jez sets her drink down. Her knowing my name gives me butterflies. "Meet me here tomorrow."

༄


	3. 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙍𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dearbhla shakes up a bit of Xanthus's security as he finds out that his father isn't who he says he is,

༄

In the mirror proceeding a short cold shower, I stare intensely at myself. Tall. Pale. Slender. Sickly. My skin is a mere thin white sheet over my flesh and blood where it shows the most capillaries around my joints and on my face. The physical inner workings beneath my skin are on display for everyone to see.

Further facial decorations include sunken, darkened eyes. I see Dearbhla in my eyes, though I remember hers being a much more vibrant hazel with reverse central heterochromia. I study the skin around my eyes, gently patting and rubbing around the area. Though the hollowness of my eyes appears to be rough, it's soft and smooth to the touch. What a deceptive face you have, Xanthus Beauvoir.

The shower's heated fog begins to cloud the mirror, bringing my field of view to my eyes only. I stare a moment longer before steadying my gaze to the folded clothes on the sink next to me. A handmade patchwork sweater by Rory and I sit on top of ordinary indigo-washed jeans. I haven't worn something so vibrant in so long.

I slide the soft sweater on before rubbing my arms, getting a feel of the distinct patches of varying coloured and textured cloth and the bumpy ridges that separate them. I can't see myself in the mirror, but I can determine that I probably look okay.

However, am I good looking enough in this outfit for Dearbhla? Probably not.

The sweater's right sleeve moistens as I dry the mirror as if I'm a windshield wiper once more. While doing so, the image of a flushed face and my naked lower half greets me, and it is interested in the topic plaguing my mind at the moment.

My now roaming mind fills with why she could've possibly needed me. The only time I spoke to her was when she arrived (at least at the café). The only things I know about her are what I've falsified about her existence in my journal. She may be an avid dramatist who lives in her mind just as much as I do, or she may be an overwrought student, maintained both by her studies and keeping up with a substantial social life.

I let my mind go off course as the rest of my clothes make it on my body, soothing me only by warmth.

The vapour returns to the mirror again, and my thicker clothing coupled with the bathroom's heat makes me slightly fearful. That, I suppose, is the best time to leave and see Dearbhla down the block at the café: with a bit of scepticism to keep me on edge.

Bare walls and a couple of pieces of furniture welcome me in my studio apartment's living room. Vacant and barren, just like the café. The one presentable area in this room is the extension to my bedroom's desk, messily decorated with various piles of papers that have bled into the main living area along with what seems like a warehouse's worth of other stationery items. Beneath the desk is a stack of notebooks that seem to be overflowing. Some of them are overwhelmed to the point of having a broken spine. All of my thoughts, observations, brainstorms, soliloquies and everything else story-like are between the covers of all those notebooks and journals.

On a whim, I managed to take one of the journals before leaving, one recently finished. The spine nearly creaks as I squeeze the covers mended by both earthy floral stickers and numerous layers of tape between my fingertips. As I exit, I flip through the heavily marked pages and papers between them.

The first fifth of the journal exists as a brainstorming area. Half the words might be scratched out, but it was no match for my ability to decipher my 1700s-era-founding-father handwriting as well as my constant bouncing thoughts. Some of the folded papers include sketches and drawings of how I expect the following characters to look. It always came as a surprise to Rory—the only person who has seen the contents of the pages before me—that none of them looked like me.

As the season reaches its peak, the balmoral boot enclosing my feet crunches against the myriad of brown and red leaves scattered along the pavement, which distracts me from the notebook. I close it with the attached magnets that keep both covers shut, again held together with tape. The steady crunching is enough to put me at ease briefly.

R&OM makes its way into my field of view as I pick up my pace. Dearbhla and I didn't settle on a time, but I assume she would be there at around the same time she and I have had our two meetings there. In a small fit of anxiety, I rub my thumb across the top cover, pressing down on any stickers or pieces of tape that stick up.

I release a hefty breath before striding into the café. This nervousness enveloping me is out of the ordinary.

Rory, standing near the entrance, makes eye contact with me and nods their head towards a welcoming booth with a familiar head facing away from me. As I take my first step forward, they gesture to the stools by the register that Jez handles. A large man with a head of grey hair and an intimidating side profile sips on what I assume is a black coffee.

"You go to him next," whispers Rory.

Another batch of anxiety shakes me as I step slowly into the booth.

Dearbhla's face has morphed once again, this time delicately decorated with soft makeup—smudged maroon eyeliner, mascara and a nude lip. Her hair curls away from her face, and her delicate face taking on new forms is equal parts fascinating and scary.

Her wide smile warms me up. I return one to her as I try to take my focus off of the large man on the stool who shifts with uneasiness as he takes a phone call. Though his voice is a thundering rumble that can probably shake half of the town's dozen antique buildings, my audio processing must be off as I can't make out a word he's saying.

"What did you beckon me here for?" I inquire. "Not that I'm unforgiving in that regard, I'm just curious if I'll receive a precursor to this conversation."

"I want a friend... Jez, I think that's the lad's name, referred me to be the next recipient of your companionship. Either you're a great friend, or he expects something to happen."

"Like?" There's one answer I want her to say.

"Love," she chuckles with the answer I'm looking for, glancing briefly at Jez. "We were talking about hobbies, and he's a hopeless romantic."

A gentle giggle escapes her mouth as she twiddles her thumbs. The wrapped notebook is nestled nicely in my lap. I pat it lightly as the awkward silence suffocates the conversation. Dearbhla and I make brief eye contact before lowering our heads and continuing the tapping and twiddling. Her shyness is captivating.

Like an angel (or--dare I say--Cupid) both Jez and Rory arrive at the booth with surprise drinks and pastries, respectively. Rory flees the area quickly, and I feel my existing smile drop immediately.

"You're gonna have to pay for this, of course, but I've just thrown together some shit together that I think will taste good," Jez laughs.

Dearbhla lets out a laugh, too, and I would be lying if I claimed that it isn't the most heartwarming thing I've ever heard. It's a wash of full-body warmth that fills you with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia and hope for the future. My heart flutters in my chest like a caged butterfly as my mind runs wild with ways I could get her to laugh again.

As Jez departs, Dearbhla takes a pinkish drink and a jam-filled pastry with elation plastered on her face that can only compare to being a kid in a candy store while everything is half-off.

One of the last two pastries looks enough like something my mother would have made me in my youth, so I take its flaky exterior into my hands and immediately bite into it as soon as I see Dearbhla do the same. Her shoulders rise and fall with the same hearty laughter that piques my interest once more, and I find myself chuckling with her.

The taste of the flaky peanutty pastry comes close to giving me the same giddiness that her laugh does, but alas, no cigar. I lay it on the small serving plate and take a drink of the greenish glass before me. Something about the translucent cups decorated with nature prints and porcelain handle decorations reminds me of my early schooling days, eating on the field when the weather allowed us to do so and getting into petty fights.

"I'll be your friend... Dear, for sure," I accept with encouragement, punctuating every sound of her name.

Dearbhla's hand quickly makes it to her mouth as a light giggle escapes her. "Jez is a damn good matchmaker."

As we peer back to Jez at the register, the suited man slams his fist and phone on the counter, which causes Dearbhla to yelp. I take the slam as my cue to find out who he is and why he needs me.

I clench my jaw and circle around the man before perching on a stool next to him.

"I take it you're Xanthus," he grumbles, turning his seat away from me.

"And you are?"

He slams a fist down again. "Don't ask me fucking questions."

Jez's eyes light up, and he immediately yanks something from under the counter and slams it on the table—a small black box. "Watch your attitude in here, bitch," he warns. "If you're in here for a reason, let him know before I kick you out."

The stool rotates back as the man's body faces Jez's. The man's head lowers but only slightly.

"Your goddamned father owes me money. A lot of it. One of you needs to pay me, and at this point, I require more than paper."

༄


	4. 𝙋𝘼𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xanthus takes Dearbhla on a trip back home to realise that his world moved on without him. Jez and Rory’s friendship tenses,

༄

Papers beneath my feet crunch like fallen leaves in the autumn as I pick up the stacks of them before me. Most of what I step on is blank printer paper, but the ones that overwhelm my ability to hold them are both a bunch of scribbled messes. Some stacks are bound together with magnets, staples and tacks. In essence, these papers are just like my notebooks but lack the covers that would make them even semi-cohesive.

A glance at a yellowed paper with vibrant colours seems to make the floor sway under me while weight quickly grows in my chest, which stops me in my tracks. The drawing—depicting a crayon illustration of Mother, Father and I—meets a large coffee stain, definitely from the beginning of the business days.

What I did to fail my parents is a mystery, but years have passed since we have had a regular conversation. Despite the occasional phone calls and Christmas cards, there lacks a concrete indication of what they have been up to for years.

My heart tugs knowing we drifted away so soon.

Father did the most to keep in contact with me partially because he took pride in me being his only child son. Another component of his eagerness stems from me being independent. I lacked the need for that kind of contact to move forward as a self-sufficient young adult. Independence is an idea I would typically yearn to accept if it was more than a half-truth.

Although my parents were both emotionally unavailable throughout this lifetime, Mother was by far the most awful. To an extent, I could understand the absence of my father. His excessive working schedule—that might not have paid off due to what that man suggested at the café—drew him away from home often. I reject the constant irrational responses to simpler things said to me over my life by my mother. My remembrances of this period a dozen years ago are cloudy at best since that internal timeline was questioned so intensely for so long.

At the very least, my efforts have been paying off somewhat. My ability to succeed now changes nothing about their respective absences from my life. In one aspect, independence, my strength outweighed my fears. My fortitude has always been profound, I suppose.

But I was a child. Strength kept me afloat, but all I truly needed was my parents.

The papers reach the ceiling when I throw them back onto the floor before raining down on me. A couple of loose tacks pinch my shoulders as they come back down with an odd force. God, I need to get rid of that drawing.

My morbid curiosity gets the best of me. Before I can contest my actions, my couch sucks me in to dial a phone number.

There are too many topics bouncing to and fro within my mind, so when Mother picks up I can only ask one thing after rushing her through a greeting—

"Maman, do you and dad still have money?"

Her dry chuckle is soothing and nostalgic. "I think the money situation is okay, why? Do you need some?"

The tone in her voice, one of profound concern and compassion, is a complete change from how she used to be. It creates another trench in my chest. This pit is much more chasmic than the one started by the drawing—her voice is how things could have been.

Where did I go wrong?

"Um, no, maman," I babble. More time to think would have been extremely beneficial right now. "Can, can I um—"

"What is it, Xanthus?" Her voice seems to amplify, and I assume she is holding the phone to her face, cradling it as if an old friend is urgently calling her at the dinner table again.

"Can I come over? I just miss being around the house."

Her agreement is quick, and before I know it, my throat shuts with a typical burn. The papers near the desk keep me grounded in reality as I hang up and let the tears fall. The vibrant drawing peaks through the valleys of blank printer paper like the sun over a choppy horizon. Is it hope?

With a huff of weariness, I shove the papers into prepared boxes. At this point, caring about the mess is more work than the disorganised organisation. I would much rather have things messily organised than the explosion of stationery that I had before. However, I treat the drawing with a fraction of respect as I place it with care on the top of one of the paper stacks.

The boxes fill up the coat closet quickly. After some time, the living room looks presentable for the first time since I was enrolled in university. One of the various coats in front of the boxes pokes out like a sore thumb despite its plainness. I figure something that sticks out to me is good enough to see my mother in.

Dearbhla emerges in my thoughts again. Would it be good enough to see her in? Maybe not, but the sentimental side of my brain is much faster than the logical side. It takes control of me and makes my first call to Dearbhla after seeing her for the second time.

One ring, two… three…

"Xanthus?" She sounds nearly out of breath. "Xan, hi!"

I chuckle a little louder than intended. "I have an unfathomable appreciation for the nickname, Dear, but they are really starting to sound like drugs."

"Maybe you are one… What is it that you needed, love?"

"Come with me someplace, Dear. I think you will love it." I resist indulging Dearbhla in the semi-importance of our eventual whereabouts. Of course, I expect her to meet my mother one day as Jez and Rory have. Being too hasty about something so important in a relationship, platonic or otherwise, is still a questionable move.

Overthinking is my best quality, right?

Dearbhla has no time to answer me. I tell her if she wants to meet me at the café before hanging up on her.

What the hell is she doing to me?

— — —

Dearbhla sighs with relaxation as she reclines in the passenger seat. "This new car smell is the first time experiencing such a thing," she chuckles. Her feet rub back and forth on the newly-installed floor mats as a satisfied smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

I observe her peculiarities a moment longer before conceding, "Since the town is so small, I rarely get the opportunity to use this... once-in-a-blue-moon type of luxury." I unbuckle my seatbelt and lower my head to her. "Do you want to come in?"

Her instantaneous reluctance gives me my answer. The emerging uneasiness of picking at her fingers and leg bouncing is oddly comforting; she and Jez share the same anxious tics. "X," she murmurs. "It seems like this—" she motions to the forested vastness around her— "is a bit of a distance from my comfort zone."

Dearbhla surveys the gate that separates a forest preserve from the pathway connecting to my childhood home: a tall, motorised wooden barrier. I peer out of the back window. Apart from the bound notebook and a new pack of pens on the seats behind us, the rest of the items occupying my view are thick deciduous trees.

"I get it," I blurt out. "This is a bit… intense."

Her gentle laugh recharges my glee as I depart from the car. I interact with the buzzer as I smile at Dearbhla.

"Xanthus? Hello?" Mother asks as I kneel a bit to face the accompanying camera. My smile is forced, but the laugh my mother has is giddy.

The gate creaks open, and I refuse to give Dearbhla another second to herself as I dash up the narrow driveway. Yellow achillea, pink hollyhocks, periwinkle Amsonia, lilies of the valley, and soft pink penstemon seem to reach from the gate to the multi-storey Pacific lodge-style home.

I wonder for a moment about what Dearbhla and I would have talked about on the short drive or longer walk until we got to the doorstep.

"Hi!" Mother calls from the rose bushes framing the staircase. "See yourself in, I'll be right there."

The positivity from her is something I have never experienced. The trench in my chest begs to open again but settles at a crack. I sink into the cabin-themed couch and scan the living room interior.

Everything has changed from the last time I was here. Everything has been moved or replaced.

I think I'm the last thing to go.

Tall wooden cabinets complement the towering ceilings and are filled with pictures, novelties and trinkets from world adventures. Gold-plated leaves wrap around small versions of the wonders of the world and are intertwined with copper light strings.

In front of the cabin couch are triangular windows that frame the A-line roof, and below them are sliding doors that lead to a large, newly dampened rustic deck. Memories of family get-togethers dance around in the back of my mind. I yearn to relive those emotions again.

Family pictures are plentiful and spread across most places that allow space for them—at least one perched on every shelf and side table.

I don't recognise most of the people in the pictures.

The crack within me begins to widen.

"Xanthus, it's really nice to see you again," Mother interrupts. She's scrubbing dirt out of her fingernails with her gardening gloves. I didn't know that she still gardened.

I give her a fake smile.

— — —

"X, what kind of art do you do? Jez just mentioned that you went to school for it," inquires Dearbhla as I get into the car. Her fidgeting hand with her phone in it comforts me again.

"For the most part, I draw portraits or write whatever comes to mind."

"What's your creative process like?" Her gaze is glued on the front gate and a small grin dances at the edge of her mouth. "How do you know what you want to create? I usually attempt to turn harmful thoughts into positive ones."

"I like that. I normally spend time... really into something then get it down on paper. The thing can be negative, too."

"Negative?"

"Negative emotions, for instance. Wallowing in self-pity makes for damn good art."

I wonder for a second if I should indulge her on negative experiences I've endured since she's experienced with flipping them on their heads. It doesn't take me long to realise how beneficial it might be to me later.

I choose my words carefully. "My parents haven't been the best. It's been difficult being pushed away by them, to form relationships when the first one that I was exposed to crumbled quickly like the foundations of Pompeii post-Vesuvius."

As I sigh, Dearbhla sinks into her seat. I start the car and begin the reverse to the only street that cuts through the forested area. She's cinched.

"I channel my inner child with some of the drawings. An angel would be cradling me in place of my parents, which doubles as parental and religious trauma," I explain. Dearbhla examines my hand as it grips the gear shifter. "Growing up without siblings or same-aged cousins while attending private schools that had very low teacher-to-student ratios meant that I was frequently alone."

"Your childhood sounds odd," Dearbhla gushes. "Even if your circumstances were less than ideal, you can still create one-of-a-kind art. You're unique."

"Unique just means you're alone."

When she finishes, the only sounds that fill the car are its engine.

Dearbhla keeps her head down as we continue travelling south into the small town again. At the outskirts of the city, the sign—brandishing a warm welcome to Dawson City—is what grabs Dearbhla's attention.

"What kind of tourist places does this city offer?" she mumbles.

"Not much, I won't lie," I admit loud enough for her to hear. "Most of what we offer is what came from the Klondike Gold Rush back an era ago."

"I see." She shifts uncomfortably. "What's the demographic like here? Most of Ireland is, in fact, Irish."

I smile at her successful attempt to lighten the conversation. "Three-quarters of the town are ordinary European Canadians, but a good portion of us are First Nations."

"Us?"

"We're called Tr'ondëk Hwëch'in, but that only accounts for half of me. My father is French but came here decades ago for God-knows-what."

Dearbhla begins to erupt in the same laughter that captivated me at the café. "That explains the Milo Thatch look you have going on."

My smile widens, and I let her compliment simmer in my mind for a moment. Our current conversation is the longest one I've had in months. The interactions before this were merely quick check-ins before hookups with Rory.

"Thank you for being patient with me," she coos. "People don't take my boundaries seriously or think they're silly."

"This place is so different from what I expect Ireland is like. You're so far from home in a place nothing like your own. You'll go out there again at your own time, Dear."

She lays her hand on mine and helps me shift my gear. Her open palm is soft and warm, and as much as I want to look at her and give her a gentle smile, I keep my eyes on the road. Instead, I lay my hand on top of hers to guide her through the various gear shifts.

Buildings coming into my view become more and more recognisable. "Do you want to go to the café again, Dear? It'll be my treat," I wonder as I grip her hand.

Dearbhla's cheeks redden as she nods. I turn the final corner and park in front of the lodge-style café. It's a sore thumb compared to the other very vibrant modern Yukon buildings.

Our hands linger for just a moment before she pulls hers away with an embarrassed fluster, but the inviting warmth of her hands make my heart flutter.

Her long winter coat almost gets caught on the door, but we laugh it off as we stride in.

Apparently, Dearbhla and I are the only people in the thousand-resident town that appreciate such a winter-like day in early September. Rory and Jez both look extremely tense behind the register, and Dear immediately rushes to mediate.

"That's not something you should bring to the workplace, Rory," Jez snarls.

I take a seat at a stool as Rory replies, "I want to continue this relationship, so my apologies that I entertain the idea when—when they come by." Their hesitation on the topic's pronouns piques my interest.

"What's going on?" Dearbhla asks with a tone similar to a therapist.

"I feel like I'm crazy for not wanting my worker to kiss up on people when we have customers in the building." Jez rubs his temples and huffs. "Just keep it out of the workplace, Rory."

This is about me.

Dearbhla tilts her head to the side. "Is it wrong to kiss? I mean, a French one might be a little bit out of the ordinary, but a brief and loving snog doesn't seem too horrible."

Rory's face lights up, and they smile. "It shouldn't be awkward that I date Xa—"

"What are the pastries available for the day?" I interrupt while shooting down Rory's positivity with a hardened look. Their smile fades immediately, and I can physically see their heart begin to break.

Jez rolls his eyes and sends Rory to get some pastries.

"You two came in together, what's up?" Jez asks with a raised eyebrow.

"I went up north to get a top-secret envelope," I explain with the same raised brow.

Dearbhla laughs once more, and Rory comes out with a serving tray of pastries.

The envelope from my mother is tucked neatly in my coat pocket. I slip my hand into the envelope and fish out a hundred before waving it to beckon Jez.

"A gift my good sir," I say, mimicking a high-class British accent. "For the crumpets."

He hides his surprise with a giddy laugh as he takes the money from my hand. "Ah, you are the best, X. And in return, I have something fresh and new for you."

I raise my eyebrow, and Dearbhla weaves her hand through mine and pulls it out of Jez and Rory's view.

"I have an event tonight, one taking place here to get some extra money," Jez explains. "I want your writing capabilities to thrive on the stage. 

And Dear, you have a formal invitation from me."

༄

**Author's Note:**

> ༄ kudos, comments, etc. are much appreciated. this series is cross-posted on my wattpad account, izihlahla. ༄


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